


Sweet Tooth

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Food Issues, Food Metaphors, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Minnesota, Paul Gross Birthday Handcuffs Fest, State Fair, Unrequited Love, food is not people for once, hannibal has a bad time, ok that tag is not relevant but i typed in 'gross' and that came up and im laughing now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Minnesota State Fair, and everyone knows that fairs are full of tasty treats! The fair is a chance for Hannibal to get closer to Will, by trying some of the agent's favorite foods.<br/>Predictably, it doesn't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> hahahaha this is awful i wrote it for a mate who gave me the prompt. when will i be nice to hannibal? probably never. also, america; why, why, why - mac and cheese cupcakes???? i dont understand.

“Sumptuous, I am sure,” Dr. Lecter accepts the plastic cup from the food vendor, delicately perching it between his fingers and attempting to not grimace until his face is carefully shielded from anyone who might take offense. A few feet away, Will Graham - esteemed detective, fervent dog collector, apparent lover of dubious culinary ventures - chomps his way through a corndog, his third of the day as Hannibal might add, and surveys the bustling field around them. It is a day off for the force, an annual break for the Minnesota State Fair where only a skeleton crew stayed behind to keep an eye on things. (The perfect day for crime, Hannibal might add, but seeing as approximately 97% of the state was swarming before his eyes, maybe they would be safe.)

Will turns to him, lips a little greasy, “it’s a busy one this year, isn’t it?” Normally Will would be averse to crowds, but Winston’s wet nose touches his thigh every time he begins to tense up and his friends from the forensics team keep a semi-circle between him and the hungry hordes. He does not relax fully, Hannibal can tell, but he seems…cheerful. Comfortable in his flannel, beanie hat pulled down to shelter his ears.

“It certainly is,” Hannibal moves closer, hand darting out to swipe himself a wad of paper napkins before he joins the agent, pressing the napkins between his fingers and the cup before him. It contains something fried - for that is something he can ascertain - topped with whipped cream, a cherry balanced precariously against the shell of a blue plastic spoon. He holds it up, as if inspecting a lab specimen, “what…did you say this was again, Will?”

“Fried Coca Cola,” Will sounds almost a little too pleased at the answer he has given, depositing the stick that once held his corndog into a nearby rubbish bin. He casts around, a napkin scraping the grease from his lips - Will has such a pleasant mouth, Hannibal notes, it is a shame to have to see it wrapped around something so low brow as what is essentially a battered sausage, mounted upon a wooden skewer - and brightens a little as he observes the nearest stalls, “ooh, rib in a bread cone, to go….”

Hannibal looks into the cup again as Will clicks his tongue at Winston, bustling over to the prime rib stand, murmuring something about jalapeno ice cream. “Fried?,” he utters aloud, his eyes shrinking smaller still as he turns the cup a little to view the contents better. Small brown balls greet him, rolling in what does indeed look like cola, which drips (a slow moving syrup it seems to have become) around the cup’s interior. Fried cola? No one responds, his call for explanation - for culinary assistance - lost to the wind as the crowds flow around him, Will’s beanie disappearing towards a gigantic barbecue, smoking away. He dares not wonder aloud again, so Hannibal follows, cup of fried soda in hand.

Alas, the fair shifts lie a labyrinth, and Will seems to have vanished before him - and Hannibal looks into the cup again, the whipped cream seeming to suck him in a little. He stops (stupidly, he would later realize, right in the middle of a thoroughfare) to eyeball the cherry, which stares up at him, the shine on its surface like a pupil.

Will had paid for this, a fair treat. He should at least do him the courtesy of trying it.

The spoon pushes through the cream and down, slowly, between the small fried balls until Hannibal tries to retrieve one. It bends in his grip - softened by the warmth of his hand, and the sunshine, obviously - but still scoops out a single ball, smothered in dairy white. He holds it up, inspecting it for a moment. The summer sun of Minnesota beats down upon him, the cream melts a little more, pooling in the spoon, and Hannibal regrets wearing tweed today. He swallows a little, to wet his throat, the spoon traveling towards him at an ever decreasing rate. (He has to remind himself, he is only being polite. Very, very polite.)

The first flavor on his tongue is wet batter - not the rich, beer batter that Hannibal is used to, that he cooks with himself. He identifies it as something deeper fried, more pungent in aroma (certainly no sunflower oil used here) and more dull in taste. Squidgy. Doughy. The slightest hint of the caramelized flavor of cola rolls over his tongue. Hannibal attempts to not throw up in his mouth.

Then, his teeth pull the batter apart - and the syrup inside, signifying the dessert as not quite fried deeply enough, not quite solid, rolls out onto his tongue. It clings to him, sickly sweet and already chewing holes into his teeth (Hannibal feels the bile rise in the back of his throat), the syrup clinging to the roof of his mouth as he tries desperately to lick it off. He remembers again, Will’s words - “It’s a favorite of mine, when I get a chance to come…” - and hurriedly pushes another into his mouth, desperate to see if this will be cooked better. Alas! The crunch is minuscule as more syrupy cola-batter disintegrates in his mouth, bubbling at his lips as he tries desperately to swallow it. Thick as it slides down the back of his throat, the syrup provides not better aftertaste, and Hannibal pales a little, shoving another into his mouth most indelicately.

Will is the one to locate him, ten minutes later, retching into a bin behind the Minnesota Wine Country stand. His features pull tight in concern, Winston wuffing quietly at his heel, “Hannibal?”

“I’m fine,” Hannibal’s voice is muffled, fingers shaking a little as they grip the side of the trash can.

“Was it the fried cola?,” Will fusses quietly, twisting his cuff in between his finger tips.

Hannibal waves a hand, “no, th-they were delicious!” He can feel the whipped cream clinging to his lips, and wretches again.

“Hm,” Will raises an brow, “maybe I’ll buy you another.”


End file.
